The blare of the camp horns jolted Gabe Quinn from his sleep. He’d stayed up late last night, anxiety gnawing at him, and now he was utterly exhausted. He never practiced cultivation—doing so would only hasten his death—which left the entire Deathsworn Battalion baffled: their captain never trained, yet his skills always surpassed theirs. If only they knew—Gabe wished his martial arts would stop advancing altogether. But reality was cruel: every time he fought, whether a skirmish or a full battle, that damned Primordial Overlord Art would creep up just a little more.
Time flies, damn it! Gabe hated how fast time passed—he wished it would freeze at some point, so he wouldn’t have to worry about the hidden danger in his body erupting without warning.
He stood up. This was the fifth episode this year. Each time, the backlash hit harder than the last—was it finally slipping beyond his control? Mad Shu said that every pill he took pushed him further down a dead-end road, maybe hinting at something more.
He lifted the tent flap and stepped outside, only to find three men standing rigidly in front of his command tent. They were the Deathsworn Battalion’s three deputy captains—Mutt, Shears, and Monk. Of course, these weren’t their real names, just nicknames. There were no decent sons in the Deathsworn Battalion. Mutt had been called that in his previous unit, always biting anyone who crossed him. In a fit of madness, he’d speared his commanding officer and was sent here to die, but instead, he thrived and rose to deputy captain. Shears and Monk weren’t soldiers before. Shears used to be a small shop owner in Autumnwater City. His wife was raped by a local wastrel, so one dark, windy night he snuck into the man’s mansion, tied him up, then woke the whole household. Before hundreds of onlookers, Shears slowly sliced off the man’s genitals with a pair of scissors. His crime was unforgivable, but understandable—thus he was exiled to the army, earning his nickname. Monk really was a monk before joining the Deathsworn Battalion, but he was a debauched one: wine, meat, gambling, prostitutes, and worst of all, rape. He was caught and should have been executed, but volunteered for military service and survived. After a few years and some merit, he became a deputy captain.
Of the three, if anyone could be called a decent man, it was Shears. He and Monk were bitter rivals in the battalion. Shears couldn’t stand Monk’s debauchery; the moment he heard Monk was sent here for rape, he attacked him on his first day. After two years of fighting, both bore scars from their clashes—neither could best the other.
Mutt was the fiercest of the three. On his first day in the battalion, Gabe beat him so badly he spent half a month bedridden. After that, Mutt never dared bare his teeth at Gabe again. The other two had seen Mutt’s wild side and avoided provoking him unless absolutely necessary.
This odd trio—soldiers who seemed ready to strangle each other on sight—had, under Gabe’s command, managed to drive the Deathsworn Battalion’s fatality rate below fifty percent over the past two years. It was nothing short of a miracle.
The three arrived outside Gabe’s tent early, but none dared lift the flap and enter. They stood stiffly outside, because each knew that stepping in might earn them a fist or a boot—Gabe’s blows weren’t easy to endure, and a single hit could leave them aching for days.
Gabe ignored the three and walked right past them. His orderly, Little Monkey, quickly brought a bucket of cold water. Gabe stripped bare, standing stark naked beside the three deputies. His body was crisscrossed with scars, layer upon layer, making the trio shudder with a mix of awe and horror.
It wasn’t their first time seeing Gabe’s scars, but every time, their hearts raced. It was hard to imagine how anyone could survive so many wounds.
Little Monkey was just fourteen. He’d been dumped here because he stabbed his stepfather to death—a bastard who beat him and his mother. He was so young that no one in the Deathsworn Battalion had the guts to bully him. Still, Gabe Quinn kept him close. In a camp full of men, there were always a few perverts around. When Little Monkey first arrived, he was soft-skinned and delicate—easy prey. But under Gabe’s protection, even the boldest bastard wouldn’t dare lay a finger on him.
Little Monkey dumped a bucket of cold water over Gabe’s head, soaking him to the bone, then handed him a dry towel. Gabe wiped himself off, still stark naked, and strode straight over to the three men, giving them a hard look.
“Captain Quinn, orders say we move out today. When do we break camp? Just waiting on your word.” Shears stepped forward and spoke up, loud and clear.
“Let the boys start packing up their gear. Orders say we move today, but didn’t say morning, noon, or night. As long as we march out before sundown, we’re good.” Gabe tossed the towel to Little Monkey, took the clean uniform from him, and pulled it on piece by piece.
“Got it.” Shears nodded and stepped back.
“Same old rules: Mutt leads, Shears in the middle, Monk brings up the rear.” Gabe finished dressing. “And warn your men—once we break camp, the whole battalion’s in war mode. Anyone dumb enough to start a fight or settle scores during this time, I’ll chop his damn head off and feed it to the dogs.”
“Yes, sir!” The three straightened up. Gabe wasn’t bluffing—during peacetime, you could brawl or kill as you liked, as long as it was a fair fight. But once the march started, any crap like that—even spitting at your enemy—earned you one thing: the blade. The blade that’d take your head off.
(Irrelevant system notice skipped.)
So there was a strange sight in the Deathsworn Battalion: once war mode started, men who’d normally want to kill each other would smile when they met, terrified someone might think they were about to start trouble.
“Mutt, Monk, get your asses back and get ready. Shears, stay.” Gabe lifted the tent flap and stepped inside. Mutt and Monk didn’t hesitate—they turned and left. Shears followed Gabe into the tent.
“This time we're marching deep into enemy territory. Damn it, whose idiot idea was this? Are they trying to get us slaughtered by Western Qin? The Western Frontier Army alone isn’t enough for this shit, so you’d better guard the rations like your life depends on it. Once we’re behind enemy lines, we ration every crumb—no one knows what’ll happen. If we run out of food, forget fighting, the whole damn unit will just fall apart.”
"Got it."
"Bring an extra ten percent rations. If it’s not enough, figure it out yourself," Gabe said.
"Figure it out myself?" Shears blinked, confused.
"Yeah, figure it out yourself." Gabe suddenly grinned, "I know the Evervictorious Battalion’s got a shipment coming in after lunch today. If we time it right... Ha!"
Shears’ eyes lit up. "I get it. Leave it to me. If the Deathsworn Battalion wants something, nobody says no."
Gabe waved him off. Shears spun on his heel and strode out, crisp and clean.
With this bunch, there’s nothing they won’t do. Sometimes Gabe found it easy leading a pack of bastards like this—a hint and they got it. Rule-followers? Not in the Deathsworn. If there ever were, they’re long dead.
Little Monkey jogged into the main tent. Aside from Mad Shu, he was the only one allowed in without getting smacked.
"Boss Gabe, Central Command sent word—you're wanted at the officers’ meeting," Little Monkey said.
"Damn it, didn’t we just have a meeting a couple days ago? What’s the point of another one?" Gabe spat. "Fine, tell the messenger I’ll go after breakfast. Little Monkey, what are we eating this morning?"
Little Monkey grinned. "Boss Gabe, I found some mushrooms yesterday and got a wild chicken off Mutt—made chicken soup."
"Good, good, bring it over." Gabe laughed. The kid had real talent in the kitchen—rumor was he learned it from the stepfather he stabbed, a big-shot chef from a restaurant.